Gray Hairs
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: The younger Tracy brothers specialize in giving their older brothers gray hairs! This will (theoretically) be a collection of short stories.
1. Chapter 1

_Theoretically, this will be a collection; I may continue to add to it over time. This may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and who knows, maybe it'll end up with some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 **Introduction**

Scott leaned a little closer to the mirror, frowning, trying to turn his head at just the right angle to see the side of his hair.

"Looking for gray hairs?" an amused voice asked.

Scott jumped and turned to glare at the figure leaning casually against the door frame. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" he grumbled.

Virgil grinned. "The door was open." He nodded toward Scott's hair. "So, do you have any?"

"Do _you_?" Scott retorted.

Virgil's grin faded slightly. He changed the subject slightly. "Crazy kids. Just wait till they have kids of their own – or become uncles, or something. Then they'll understand what they've put us through."

Scott quirked an eyebrow, amused. " _They_?" he repeated. "As if _you've_ never done anything to give me gray hairs?"

Virgil crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh yeah? Name one time!" Oops, totally the wrong thing to say, judging by the look of pure satisfaction that crossed Scott's face.

"I'd have a tough time naming just one," Scott told him smugly. "Remember when…"

 **Chapter One**

"Okay, I'm headed down to do some maintenance," Virgil said, walking toward the painting of the rocket.

"You're seriously going to take the chute just to do maintenance?" Scott asked, rolling his eyes.

Virgil grinned at him, his eyes sparkling. "You're just jealous because my ride's way cooler than yours," he retorted.

"Your ride's not cool – it's _crazy_ ," Scott muttered. "That flip at the end…what if you missed the handlebars?"

Virgil shrugged, stepping onto the plate. "Haven't missed them yet, and I don't plan to, so we're all good." He was tipping as he spoke, and his final words echoed slightly as he slid out of sight.

Scott just shook his head and went back to the datapad he was studying.

A minute later, Brains wandered in, MAX trailing at his heels like a giant metal puppy. "Scott, have you, uh, seen Virgil?" the scientist asked.

Scott gestured with his thumb. "Down the chute to do some maintenance on Two," he said briefly, focused on what he was reading.

Brains' horrified gasp quickly got his attention, though. He looked up to see that the scientist had turned as white as a sheet.

"Down the…down the chute?" he repeated faintly.

"Yeah, what's wrong with that?" Scott asked warily, his big brother senses kicking into high gear, the datapad now forgotten in his hands.

Brains flew into a panic. "Scott, I moved Th-Thunderbird Two out onto the runway a few minutes ago to get started on the maintenance!"

Before Brains had finished speaking, Scott was flinging aside the datapad and racing for the next best way down to Two's hangar – Gordon's elevator. In moments, he was descending, shuffling his feet impatiently at the slow speed compared to his own elevator.

He was shoving his way through the elevator door before it had even fully opened. Surveying the hangar, he let his breath out in a relieved huff – there was no broken body crumpled on the hard concrete floor. His heart rate began to slow down a little – but just a little, because he knew what the only other option was. Sure enough, when he tilted his head way, _way_ back, there was his brother, clinging to the handlebars at the end of his chute ride, dangling at a truly terrifying height above the floor.

Virgil's deep voice echoed in the huge, empty hangar. "Hiya, Scott! Nice view from up here!"

Scott could hear the strain in his brother's voice despite the attempt at a light tone. Virgil was still in his civvies, so he must have turned off the automated device that put his uniform on him – which meant that he had no grappling pack or any other means to get himself to safety. Interestingly, the handlebars had not retracted back into the chute like they normally did; Brains must have installed some sort of weight sensor on them.

"Hang on, Virgil!" Scott called up, looking around wildly for something to use to get to his brother. Ladders…didn't they usually have ladders _everywhere_? Why couldn't he find one now?

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Virgil growled. "C'mon, Scott – my hands are starting to sweat!"

"Where do you keep the ladders?" Scott bellowed frantically.

"Ladders? How are ladders going to help? Use the hydraulic cargo elevator!"

"Right!" Scott raced over to the big, lumbering machine and fired it up, guiding it underneath Virgil. A motor whirred and the stabilizing feet _slowly_ dropped down into place. Only then would the safeguards on the machine allow Scott to begin raising the platform.

"Scott!" Virgil called, voice tinged with desperation.

Scott looked up, and his heart stopped as he saw one of Virgil's hands slip free.

With a supreme effort, Virgil lunged back up and caught hold of the bar again, but he was panting, and now the fingers of both hands were beginning to slip.

The platform was twenty feet below Virgil…fifteen…ten. Virgil looked down at it – and let go. He landed hard in the center and tumbled against the railing.

Scott was suddenly very glad that their cargo elevator _had_ a railing – he'd seen some that didn't. He set the controls to reverse, bringing Virgil back down to the ground level at a sedate pace.

Scott climbed up onto the machine before it had stopped moving. Virgil was lying sprawled across the platform, catching his breath, his arms limp at his sides. He turned his head to look at Scott.

"Where did Two go?" he asked pathetically.

Scott, hanging over the railing, gestured to the huge bay door. "Brains took her out to the runway. You okay?"

Virgil sat up and shook out his arms, grimacing. "I'm fine, although my arms might be a bit longer now."

Scott offered a hand and pulled Virgil up to his feet. "Well, I have to say, you really know how to give a guy gray hairs!"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Virgil scowled. "You had to let it slip to Gordon and Alan – they were calling me 'Gorilla Arms' for weeks!"

Scott chuckled before he could stop himself, but wiped the smile from his face when Virgil clenched his fist threateningly.

Virgil's own smile peeked through after a moment, though. "Well, maybe you got a _couple_ gray hairs from that incident, but it definitely doesn't account for all that salt and pepper." He ignored Scott's glare. "Remember when…"


	2. Chapter 2

_This collection may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and who knows, maybe it'll end up with some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there._

 _Thanks to ScribeOfRED, whose comment inspired this chapter._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 **Chapter Two**

Virgil had called John, acting as though he just wanted to chat, but as the conversation progressed, John became increasingly aware that Virgil was staring at him in a very odd way – he seemed to be trying to lean as close as possible to the hologram to see John better.

"What?" John finally asked. "Do I have something stuck in my teeth?"

Virgil sat back. "John, you're an older brother," he said matter-of-factly.

"Um, _yeah._ " Three times over.

"Do you have any gray hairs?"

"Do I _what_?"

"You know – have any of us younger brothers given you gray hairs?"

John rolled his eyes. "Setting aside the sheer randomness of the question, may I point out that I'm a redhead? We don't go gray."

"All right, then, I'll give you that…but assuming you _could_ get gray hairs, would you have any from stunts we've pulled?"

"You mean other than all the times Gordy's gotten me with the Dead Man's Float?"

Virgil had to wince at that one. No matter how many times Gordon pulled that trick, someone always fell for it. Even now, his heart skipped a beat as he pictured his younger brother's figure floating face down in the pool, arms and legs dangling limply. He shuddered, and quickly changed the subject. "Yeah, how about Alan? Has he ever done anything to scare you really badly – like, maybe when you were training him how to run Five?"

A thoughtful expression crossed John's face. "Oh, yeah," he murmured. "There _was_ this one time…"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

John woke up slowly, stretching luxuriously. He liked keeping his days structured, but he had to admit that sleeping in late once in a while was nice. Normally he arose early while on Five, but he had figured that he might as well take advantage of having a younger brother to delegate the early shift to. After all, he'd probably never get the chance again, as after this training session, he and Alan would be trading off on rotational shifts.

He got dressed and wandered out to the control center – and then stopped short with a frown. Five was still on auto, and there was no sign of his youngest brother. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he headed for the spare bedroom. Alan must have slept through his alarm.

Alan wasn't in his room, though. His bed was neatly made – one of the rules John had insisted on – and his uniform was gone.

Frowning more deeply now, John hurried through Five, checking the galley, the bathroom, the supply rooms, all while calling for Alan – and with no response.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or angry when he stopped by the airlock and noticed that Alan's space suit was missing from its locker. He settled on mildly annoyed – technically, Alan was qualified to be outside alone, but John would have preferred being kept in the loop.

He grimaced as he imagined what Alan would say in response to that – he could even hear the kid's absurdly cheerful voice in his head – "But, John, Thunderbird Five _is_ a loop, so how can you ever be _out_ of the loop?" He'd spent enough time with Alan lately to learn that the kid was going through a rather painful pun phase – and unfortunately, it seemed to be contagious.

He activated his radio. "Alan, come in."

Silence.

" _Alan_ , come _in_."

John growled when there was still no response. Alan must have forgotten to turn on his suit's communication system – or had thought it unnecessary for a solo trip outside.

Hurrying back to the main console, John spotted the blinking light that explained why Alan had gone outside – a minor fuse had blown, and it could only be replaced from one of the outer hatches.

John activated the camera that was pointed toward that particular hatch. He blinked, surprised, as there was still no sign of Alan. Then he shrugged – perhaps Alan hadn't been able to complete the repair and was making his way back inside. He began the process of taking Five off auto, listening for the airlock.

A few minutes later, he was frowning again. It shouldn't have taken Alan so long to get back inside. He pulled up all the exterior cameras, flipping through them one by one, a knot gradually growing in the pit of his stomach as each camera revealed the same thing: blank hull and empty space. No space-suit-clad figure was in sight. One last check of all of Five's interior security cameras confirmed it: Alan had disappeared.

Okay, time for full-blown panic mode. John hurtled to the airlock and got himself into his suit in record time, his mind racing through a million possibilities of what could have happened to his baby brother in the vacuum of outer space.

In moments, he was outside Five and moving from safety point to safety point, scanning the hull of the ship for Alan – and occasionally glancing into the cold, unforgiving darkness of outer space as well, stomach clenching in fear.

By the time he was three quarters of the way around the station, he was drenched in sweat and having a hard time controlling his breathing. He'd lost Alan, his baby brother…how would he ever tell his father? Or his other brothers?

Then he saw a hint of movement, and as he drifted closer to get a better look, his could have wept with relief – there was Alan.

The kid, naturally, had managed to settle himself in one of the only spots the cameras couldn't see. He'd used his safety line to snub himself close enough to Five to sit down, and was staring out at the stars.

John's relief quickly turned to white-hot anger. He shot toward his brother, clamping a hand down on his shoulder.

Alan jumped and turned to face him. He grinned and began to chatter a mile a minute, but of course none of it came through the radio.

John rolled his eyes and pointed to the communications switch on Alan's suit.

Comprehension dawning on his face, Alan flipped the switch.

"Hey, John," he said cheerfully, apparently totally oblivious to the panic he'd caused. "Sorry I didn't come in right away – I got distracted." He made a sweeping gesture toward the stars, his face alight with pure joy. "We've been so busy training that I haven't really had time to stop and enjoy the view."

And as John watched his brother wiggle around to a cross-legged position – not an easy feat in a space suit – and stare out toward the distant stars, blue eyes shining…John found his anger beginning to melt away.

He hooked his safety line next to Alan's and sat beside his brother for a few minutes, listening in silence as Alan identified a truly extraordinary number of stars and constellations. Alan was right, he thought – things were so busy on Five that he didn't get nearly as much time as he would like to sit back and enjoy the sheer beauty that surrounded him night and day.

After a little while, he stirred reluctantly. "C'mon, we'd better get back inside."

They made their way back into Five. John checked the monitors, only just remembering that he'd turned the ship back to manual control. Thankfully the airwaves were quiet. He also noticed, though, that there was still a light blinking on the console.

"Alan," he sighed. "Did you ever actually change that fuse?"

Alan's face said it all. "Oops."

"All right, get back out there," John told him wearily. "And for goodness' sake, don't get distracted again – it's enough to give a brother gray hair!"

Alan's eyebrows scrunched together. "But redheads don't go gray," he started to say.

"I know, I know," John growled. "But I'm willing to bet that I have a few strands right now that are a few shades lighter!"

Alan looked confused, but headed out to suit up again without further comment.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Virgil laughed. "So did you ever tell him how he had given you gray hairs? Or, excuse me – _lighter_ hairs?"

"Yeah, I had him use the cameras later to identify all the blind spots on the outside of Five. He's a sharp kid – he figured it out." John sighed. "What a morning! It makes me tense just thinking about it!" He leveled his gaze on Virgil. "Well, so that's one of my stories. How about you?"

Virgil crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't have any gray hairs," he snorted.

"Oh yeah? What'd you do – pluck them out?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Virgil said coolly. "But here's a good story that _would_ have probably given me gray hairs, if I wasn't such a tower of strength and common sense…"


	3. Chapter 3

_A continuation of a collection of short stories that may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and maybe some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

"Have I ever told you about Gordon and the sharks?" Virgil asked.

John blinked. "Sounds like one of the bedtime stories you used to make up for him when he was three."

"Oh, this is no bedtime story," Virgil said grimly. "This one might give you gray hairs just hearing about it, much less being there in person!"

John crossed his arms over his chest. "Try me."

"Okay, so we were diving a little ways off the island…"

 **Chapter Three**

Virgil drifted over the coral reef, moving slowly and enjoying the ever-changing scene below him. The sunlight cast a shifting, dappled light over the colorful formations, and a school of fish glittered past, disappearing into a patch of gently waving seaweed.

Seeing movement to one side, he turned his head and watched Gordon gracefully glide down toward the reef.

Virgil sighed. He was enjoying himself, but he wasn't as accustomed to the physical demands of diving as Gordon was, and they'd been underwater for a while. "Hey, Gords," he said, his voice sounding strange inside his diving helmet. "I'm gonna head back up to the boat now, okay?"

"Okay," Gordon replied. "You remember the rules for the ascent rate and the safety stop?"

"Thirty feet a minute, right?" Virgil said. "And stop for three minutes at fifteen feet below the surface? I've got one of those personal dive computers, though, so it shouldn't be a problem." Turning around until he spotted the outline of their boat far above, he began to slowly swim toward the surface, keeping an eye on the small computer strapped to his wrist.

A few minutes later, he was clambering over the side of the boat. He stripped off his gear and put it away.

He was digging around in the cooler for a bottle of water when he heard Gordon's voice over the radio in the boat.

" _Rats_ ," Gordon muttered.

"Gordon?" Virgil asked, walking closer to the radio. "You okay?"

"Well," Gordon said. "Not exactly. I just cut my leg pretty good on the coral."

Virgil could sense that the injury wasn't the entirety of the problem. "And…?" he prompted.

Gordon sighed. " _And_ there's a couple sharks hanging around."

Virgil's stomach clenched. "Gordon, get up here right now!"

"I'm working on it," Gordon said, his voice tense. "I need to move slowly, though."

"That makes absolutely no sense," Virgil told him. "You're bleeding, and you're just going to slowly make your way up to the surface while the sharks hunt you down?" He grabbed the First Aid kit and looked through it with a grimace – no way were there enough supplies in there if Gordon was attacked by a shark. "You need to get back to the boat as fast as possible!"

"Stay calm, Virgil. There are two reasons I need to move slowly: one, if I splash around a lot, the sharks are more likely to see me as prey, and b, I still need to decompress. I'm not in my IR suit, you know."

Virgil tried to look down into the water, but couldn't see past the wavelets. He shivered – how could Gordon be so calm? "Can't you skip the decompression just this once?" he asked. "If you get decompression sickness, we can treat it at the house, can't we?"

"Spoken like someone who's never had the bends," Gordon muttered. "It should be okay – sharks usually only actively feed in the early morning and late afternoon."

Virgil looked at his watch – it was noon. "Oh, very comforting," he said. "Do we keep a harpoon gun on this boat?"

Gordon snorted. "Why? You gonna put me out of my misery?"

"I can come down and scare the sharks away," Virgil suggested, pointedly ignoring Gordon's snark.

"Um, yeah, bad idea," Gordon told him. "If you shoot a shark, you'll just put more blood in the water, which might start a feeding frenzy."

"I thought you said they weren't hungry right now."

"Well, theoretically, anyway," Gordon muttered.

Virgil found himself looking around the boat for something – anything – that might be useful. He even considered putting his diving gear back on and going down after Gordon – but what good would that do? He growled in frustration - he'd rarely felt so helpless in a tense situation. He was the older brother; he was supposed to keep his younger brother safe, not leave him to fend for himself among the sharks! "What are they doing now?" he asked nervously.

"Circling, but at a distance," Gordon said. He muttered something under his breath.

"What? What's happening?" Virgil demanded.

"Oh, a couple more just showed up to join the party, that's all."

Virgil suddenly sat up straight as an idea occurred to him. "Hey, you said that splashing gets their attention, right? What if I take the boat a little ways away and splash a paddle in the water?"

There was a long pause. "That might work," Gordon said finally. "If they get too much closer, then it's definitely worth a try. But I'm almost up to the safety stop now, and they're still keeping their distance. Let's give it another minute."

"You're really still going to do the safety stop?"

"Hey, I told you – decompression sickness is not fun at all!"

"Do you think it's less fun than having a limb or two ripped off? Or do you need to experience that first, so you can compare the two?" Virgil looked over the edge of the boat again and sucked in a breath. He could see dark shapes now – very _large_ dark shapes, moving in slow, steady circles beneath the water. Gordon was a smaller shape directly under the boat.

"I'm making the safety stop now," Gordon informed him. "Three minutes, and then I can come the rest of the way up."

Virgil sat in the boat and tried to evict the _Jaws_ theme song from his mind as he watched the circle of sharks gradually begin to tighten. After one minute had ticked by, he noticed that a couple more sharks had showed up, bringing the total to seven.

At the two-minute marker, some fins began to show above the surface. By the end of the minute, there were ten sharks.

At the end of three of the longest minutes in Virgil's entire life, Gordon began to ascend again, still moving more slowly than his older brother would have preferred. He supposed, though, that it was more important than ever to avoid looking like prey.

Then Gordon's head popped up alongside the boat, and Virgil leapt forward, grabbing him and dragging him over the gunwhale.

Gordon tumbled over the edge and onto the deck. He pulled off his mask and lay still for a minute, catching his breath, face a little pale.

Virgil was willing to bet that if Gordon was pale, then he was as white as a ghost. "You okay, Gords?" he asked. Stupid question, but it was the only thing his frazzled brain could produce.

Gordon sat up and began pulling his equipment off. "Yeah, I'm good," he said wearily. He winced and looked down at his leg, which was still bleeding.

Virgil tugged the First Aid kit over and began to work on cleaning out the cut. "Is my hair gray?" he asked, trying – and mostly failing – to smile.

Gordon, on the other hand, was already looking more cheerful, quickly putting the incident behind him. He ruffled Virgil's hair. "Not any more than usual," he replied, grinning mischievously.

Virgil groaned. "Hey, thanks," he said dryly. He wrapped a bandage around the cut and cast one last nervous glance toward the still-circling sharks. "Ready to head home?"

"Yeah, I'm starved!" Gordon exclaimed.

Virgil just shook his head – his stomach was still tied in knots. "Well, more power to you, I guess!"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Um, yeah, definitely not a bedtime story," John agreed. "Even though it has a happy ending."

Virgil shuddered. "I haven't been diving with him again since. I guess sometime I ought to try it again – get back on the horse, and all that."

"Well, I'd better get back to work," John said. "Thanks for the nightmare fodder."

"Hey, no problem," Virgil said with a grin. "Nice talking to you!"

They signed off…and both found themselves humming the _Jaws_ theme song for the rest of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

_A continuation of a collection of short stories that may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and maybe some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

Virgil watched lazily from a lounger by the pool as Gordon's pace began to slow – he had been swimming his laps, and it was apparently time for him to cool down. The laps got slower and slower and finally stopped completely. Gordon turned over to float on his back for a few minutes before climbing up the steps and dropping down on a lounger next to Virgil, looking spent but happy.

They sat in silence for a little while before Gordon turned his head. "I heard you told John the shark story," he said. "And you've been fishing for stories from Scott and John too. What are you gonna do – write a book?"

"Nah – I was just curious," Virgil said. He glanced over at Gordon, his expression speculative. "You know, as hard as I find it to believe, I guess you're a big brother too. You got any gray hair stories?"

Gordon grinned. "I thought you'd never ask! So it was during me and Alan's last vacation together…"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 **Chapter Four**

Gordon clung to the edges of his seat, glad he was wearing a racing harness and a helmet. The vehicle skidded to a halt, and he turned to face his idiotically grinning little brother.

"She's fast, all right," he had to admit. He held up a stopwatch.

Alan glanced at the numbers and shrugged. "She'd be faster if I jettisoned the excess weight."

Gordon frowned. "She's bare bones already. What do you mean – oh. I get it." He sighed and began unbuckling his harness. "Jettisoning excess weight now." He stepped from the vehicle.

Alan grinned at him. "You'll have a better view if you go stand on that little ridge over there," he suggested.

Gordon looked to see where Alan was pointing and sighed again. "First you call me excess weight, and then you tell me to take a hike?"

"Hey, you get to pick what we do tomorrow," Alan reminded him.

Gordon perked up at that – he was thinking maybe water skiing. With that to look forward to, he had a smile on his face as he trotted over to the little rise that would give him a good view of the race course.

Reaching the top, he looked down and gave Alan a thumbs up. Alan whipped around in a tight U-turn and drove up to the start line.

Gordon could barely keep from shaking his head as he looked down at the little car – it was fast, but it was sure ugly. A far cry from the sleek race cars his brother normally preferred, this one was a rally car, meant for down and dirty racing.

Alan was watching him, waiting for the signal to start. Holding the stopwatch in one hand, Gordon raised the other high over his head. Alan revved his engine. Gordon grinned as he kept his hand up, enjoying making his brother wait.

The engine revved again, its tone somehow managing to convey Alan's impatience. Gordon finally dropped his arm, and Alan took off like a shot, sending a spray of dirt flying behind the car.

Alan hadn't actually raced the car yet; he'd been practicing techniques on a dirt track he had made on some rugged property their father owned out in the desert of New Mexico. The mile-long track wound up, down and around on just a few acres, making for an intense experience.

As Gordon watched his brother's car slide sideways around a hairpin turn and fly briefly into the air as it hit a bump, he wondered if Alan had told any of the rest of the family about this new hobby. He somehow doubted that Scott would be thrilled.

Alan passed by the finish line, skidding to a halt, and Gordon glanced down at the stopwatch. His eyebrows raised – okay, so maybe Alan had been right about him being excess weight.

Alan's voice crackled over the wrist comm. "How was that?"

"Much better," Gordon told him, reading the time off the stopwatch.

"Oh, I _know_ I can beat that," Alan said, whipping around and positioning the car back behind the line.

Gordon sighed and tried to imagine himself skiing along the surface of a gloriously cool lake instead of standing on a dusty knoll in the middle of the desert. He raised his arm, readied the stopwatch, and lowered his arm.

Alan's car hurtled forward again, taking the curves, dips and rises even faster than before, and with considerably more control than the first couple laps. As much as he'd rather be swimming, Gordon couldn't help but admire his little brother's skill.

And then, in an instant, everything fell completely apart.

Gordon, with his sharp eyes, caught a little flicker of movement on the track a bit ahead of Alan's car. He identified it as a jackrabbit, and dismissed it quickly from his mind, knowing that either it would move, or there would be one less jackrabbit in the world. It was too bad, but there was nothing he could do about it.

However, whether Alan saw the movement and thought it was something bigger, or whether he knew it was a rabbit but had suddenly become squeamish about running it over, the consequence was the same: he swerved sharply to avoid the jackrabbit, and hit a little hummock on the side of the track.

Gordon shouted Alan's name involuntarily as he watched the car flip over, land on its roof, and go rolling and careening down the hillside, finally sliding to a halt in an upright position against a boulder.

Gordon was halfway to the car, stumbling over the uneven terrain, before he even realized he'd moved. A million things flashed through his mind as he pounded across the hot, sandy track – should he call his older brothers to the rescue? _No, better wait to see what kind of shape Alan is in._ How would he get Alan to the hospital by himself? They were in the middle of nowhere, and their ride was now a crumpled heap. _Maybe I'd better call Scott…_ But even if Scott pushed One's engines to the max, it'd still take him a while to arrive, and Virgil would take even longer.

And then he was skidding down the hillside and slamming up against the smashed car. "Alan!" he called hoarsely. He grabbed the door handle and pulled hard – at the same time that it was pushed open from the inside. He landed hard on his rear and stared in astonishment as Alan popped out of the driver's seat, boiling mad.

"Stupid rabbit!" Alan shouted. "Look what it did to my car! This is going to take forever to pound out!" He stalked around the car and kicked at the boulder. Coming back around to the front of the car, he suddenly noticed Gordon. "Hey, how'd you get down here?" He frowned. "And what's with you? You don't look too good, Gordy – you're not getting sunstroke or something, are you?"

For once in his life, Gordon found himself absolutely speechless. He gaped at his brother, mouth open, but with no words coming out. The only thing his mind could come up with was that he was glad that he hadn't called Scott after all.

He pushed himself slowly up to his feet, trying to ignore the way his knees wobbled. He looked Alan in the eye and told him, "Dude, next time, just hit the rabbit, okay?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So how did you get back to the hotel?" Virgil asked. He shuddered slightly – he'd never heard this story before. Having seen the results of far too many horrific accidents, it was easy to visualize what _could_ have happened.

"Well, believe it or not, we drove that little rally car," Gordon said ruefully. "It started right back up. I had to climb in from the driver's side because my door was so badly smashed, but other than that, it just had a few dents. Alan was mad because I wouldn't let him practice any more that day."

They both jumped at a voice from behind them. "You bet I was mad," Alan said. "The car was fine – and I was too!"

Alan walked into their view, wearing swim shorts and sunglasses and carrying a bottle of water. He grinned and flopped onto a nearby lounger. "But, hey, with all these stories you guys have been telling, don't forget that it goes both ways – there have been _tons_ of times when one of you older brothers scared one of us younger brothers by doing something crazy! Right, Gordy?"

"Absolutely," Gordon replied. "You guys like to act like you're all that and a bag of chips, but sometimes it's a younger brother who's the sensible one, and the older one who's causing the gray hairs."

"Hmm, I see your point," Virgil said thoughtfully. "Take Scott, for instance. This one time…"


	5. Chapter 5

_A continuation of a collection of short stories that may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and maybe some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

"So Scott's responsible for some of your gray hairs?" Gordon asked.

"I _don't_ have any gray hairs," Virgil growled. "But if I _did_ , then yes, I could blame a few of them on good old Scotty."

John chimed in over Virgil's wrist comm., making them all jump. "Yeah, he's not exactly the role model of safe behavior. Did you know that when he was a kid, he stuck a paper clip into a wall outlet one time…and he liked how it felt so much that he kept doing it? Dad and Mom eventually had to threaten to take away his favorite toy airplane before they could get him to stop."

Gordon and Alan burst into laughter, but Virgil looked thoughtful.

"That explains a lot – and it reminds me of a really good gray hairs story," he said. He glared at his brothers and self-consciously ran a hand over his hair. " _Not_ that I actually got any, but I came close, okay?"

"You just keep telling yourself that," Gordon said. "So what's the story?"

"So I had called Scott over his wrist comm. to ask him a question…"

 **Chapter Five**

Virgil frowned. Scott had answered his question, but he sounded distracted. Tools were clinking in the background. Suddenly Scott muttered darkly under his breath.

"What are you doing, anyway?" Virgil asked.

"Trying to remove the cover to access panel A3 on Thunderbird One," Scott replied. "I just scraped my knuckles a bit, that's all."

There was a loud, reverberating metallic clang.

"Ah, there we go," Scott said.

"You dropped it, didn't you?" Virgil asked dryly. "You need any help down there?"

"Nah, I got this," Scott said. "Just switching out a fuse. It'll take thirty seconds."

Virgil frowned. "There are a lot of live wires in that panel…you _did_ remember to turn off the power, right?" He hated to sound so suspicious, but his older brother seemed to have a rather odd relationship with electricity – it was almost as if Scott didn't fully understand just how powerful and dangerous electricity was. Or perhaps he knew, but didn't care.

"Yeah, of course," Scott said breezily. "Switch three, right?"

Panic washed over Virgil. "No, Scott!" he said urgently. "The panel numbers don't actually go with the switch numbers, remember? Switch three goes to all the C panels – you want switch one!"

Scott laughed. "Ha! Gotcha!"

" _Scott_ …" Virgil growled.

"Relax, Virg," Scott told him. "Don't you think I can handle a simple repair to my own –"

His words were cut off by the unmistakable harsh, buzzing sound of electricity arcing. There was a brief burst of static over the wrist comm., and then silence.

"Scott!" Virgil yelled, trying to reestablish the connection. "Scott, come in!"

His feet were already carrying him toward the secondary elevator for One's hangar, and when there continued to be no response over the wrist comm., he gave up and shifted into an all-out sprint.

He skidded into the elevator and mashed the down button with his fist, wishing they had some sort of high-speed option.

All the possible scenarios for high-voltage electric shock were running through his mind – burns, internal injuries or broken bones from being thrown clear of the electric shock…it was even possible that Scott was in cardiac arrest at that very moment.

The elevator reached the hangar, and Virgil shoved his way out, racing for all he was worth toward the towering Thunderbird. There was no sign of Scott, and he remembered that panel A3 was on the far side. Heart in his throat, he skidded around the base of the rocket plane and spotted the hydraulic lift his brother was using to reach the panel.

Scott was upright, and Virgil let out a sigh of relief. Still, there could be burns or other serious problems. He hustled up the ladder and clambered aboard the platform next to Scott.

"Scott!" he exclaimed. "Are you okay?"

Scott turned to him, looking surprised. "Virg? What are you doing down here?" He grimaced and shook out his arm. "That kind of stung a little," he muttered. Then he grinned. "And it made my arm all tingly. You should try it – it's kind of fun!"

Virgil stared at him in disbelief. "Scott," he began. His voice squeaked uncomfortably, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "Scott, that's a high voltage line. What do you mean, it just _stung_ a little?" He grabbed his brother's hand and inspected it for burns – nothing. "Let me see the bottoms of your feet."

Bemused, Scott lifted his feet one at a time. There was no sign that the shock had traveled through his body and exited through his feet into the metal platform.

"Virg, it was just a little shock," he said. He glanced at his wrist comm. "I think it shorted out my watch, though. I guess I'll have to get a new one from Brains."

Virgil paled slightly as he looked at the watch – the face had blown off, leaving a little tangle of wires poking out.

Scott picked up the replacement fuse. "Well, back to work," he said cheerfully.

"Wait!" Virgil grabbed his arm to stop him. "Let me just go and check those switches really quick," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "It'll keep me from getting any _more_ gray hairs today."

Scott glanced at him quizzically, but shrugged. "Sure, if it makes you feel better. It's not really a big deal, though."

Virgil climbed back down the ladder, hoping Scott wouldn't notice that he had a sudden case of the shakes. Hurrying over to the panel that contained the power switches, he opened it and shook his head at what he saw.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So the joke was on him," Virgil said. "He must've had the number three on his brain because he knew he was going to be working on panel A3."

"So he really did hit switch three?" Alan breathed. "Wow, that's crazy!"

"I blame Virgil," Scott said suddenly from behind them. He pulled another lounger closer and flopped down onto it.

Virgil frowned. "How does _that_ work?"

"That question you called to ask me? You wanted to know what time we had agreed to work out," Scott said. "The answer was three o'clock."

Virgil face palmed, while Gordon, Alan and John burst into laughter.

When the laughter died down, Gordon piped up.

"Well, Virg, that's a good one, but it's nothing compared to the scare you gave me! Remember…"


	6. Chapter 6

_A continuation of a collection of short stories that may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and maybe some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

"So we were coming back from a rescue," Gordon said, lacing his fingers together behind his head as he lay on the lounger. "It was that one in Jakarta. You know - the one with the sinkhole?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember that," Scott said. "It took, what, thirty-six hours to get everyone out?"

"Yeah, something like that. So, you remember how during the rescue, everyone except Virgil managed to sneak in a quick catnap here and there. He was practically a zombie by the end. But you know him – he insisted that he was fine to fly! So we were in Two on the way home…"

 **Chapter Six**

Gordon kept a close eye on Virgil as they boarded Thunderbird Two and headed for the cockpit. He wasn't positive, but he thought that his older brother might just be sleepwalking.

"Hey, Virg," he said casually. "You look pretty done in. Want me to fly?" Not that he really _wanted_ to fly Two, but he had to wonder if Virgil would be alert enough to handle piloting the huge ship.

Virgil just shot him a red-eyed glare that spoke his opinion of _that_ idea far more eloquently than words would have done.

"Fine," Gordon muttered. "Let me get you some coffee, then."

Virgil was fumbling with his seat straps. He grimaced. "Your coffee would kill a dead horse," he grumbled.

Gordon blinked as he tried to figure that one out. "Uh…okay…" He gave up and headed for the tiny kitchenette to make coffee.

He had to strap into a jump seat until Virgil had taken off, but once the ship was level, he brewed the coffee and poured it into a travel mug, adding plenty of cream and sugar – Virgil liked it sweet. He took an experimental sip and shrugged. He'd been banned from consuming caffeine a few years earlier, but as far as he could tell, it tasted fine.

Planning to tell Virgil that no horses had been harmed in the making of his coffee, he started back toward the cockpit – only to suddenly find himself sitting on the floor as Thunderbird Two lurched into a screaming power dive. Barely retaining his grip on the coffee mug, he scrambled for something to hang onto so he wouldn't slide out of control. He just managed to grab hold of a metal strut along the wall.

"Virgil!" he yelped into his watch. "What's going on? Why are we diving?"

His calls were met with silence, and a chill ran up and down his spine.

"Virgil? Virgil! Come in!"

His mind suddenly flashed back to the time Virgil had been shot down by the _Sentinel_. Could they be under attack again? Perhaps Virgil was evading missile fire – or maybe they had already been hit, and were going down!

Gordon shook his head, quickly dismissing those thoughts - if they were being fired on, there would be alarms blaring from every corner of the huge ship. And if they had been hit, Gordon would have heard and felt the impact. No, it had to be something else.

His breath caught in his throat as another idea came to mind. What if Virgil had been injured during the rescue, and had lost consciousness? Maybe sometime when he had been out of sight of his brothers, he had fallen and hit his head, or damaged his internal organs…

"Virgil!" he tried one more time. "Virgil, come in!"

Silence. Okay, enough guessing – time for action. He considered his trajectory briefly before pushing away from the wall. Neatly sliding through the cockpit doorway, he ended up in a heap against the back of Virgil's seat. His stomach lurched as he looked out the windscreen and saw not the blue of the sky, but the steel gray of the ocean.

Even more alarming, Virgil was slumped forward in his seat, held in place by his harness. There were no obvious signs of injury, but his eyes were closed and his face was still.

First things first, Gordon told himself – before he could check on Virgil, he had to wrestle Two out of her dive. Plunking the coffee mug automatically into Virgil's cup holder, he scrambled into the copilot's seat and reached for the control yoke. His first instinct was to jerk it back toward himself, but he had enough experience to ease it back gently instead. He just hoped that they had enough altitude to correct the dive, otherwise it would end up being a different kind of "dive."

He could see the waves now, far too close, little white caps reaching up toward him as if in welcome.

He set his jaw. "Not today," he growled, and eased the yoke back a little more.

The great green Bird swooped down low over the waves, just brushing their surface as she leveled out. Gordon pulled back on the yoke one more time and breathed a long sigh of relief as they ascended, leaving the surface of the ocean far behind. As much as he loved the water, he loved it a lot more when he wasn't hurtling toward it in a non-submersible vehicle.

When they had regained a safe amount of altitude, Gordon quickly switched the controls over to autopilot and started to climb out of his seat to check on Virgil.

At that moment, though, Virgil stirred. He blinked sleepily over at Gordon, then sat up with a jolt. "Oh, sorry!" he exclaimed. "I think I must've dozed off for a split second. Good thing I've got her on auto, huh?" He spotted the mug in his cup holder. "Ooh, coffee! Thanks, Gords!" He sipped cautiously at the hot liquid. He cast Gordon another look. "How can you possibly be so wide awake?"

In contrast to Virgil, who was fighting to keep his eyes open, Gordon's eyes seemed to be stuck wide open, and he was jittering in his seat. At a loss for words, he shrugged.

Virgil stared at him suspiciously. "You didn't drink any coffee, did you? You look kind of like you do when you have caffeine."

"Just a sip," Gordon told him honestly.

Virgil looked doubtful, but let it slide. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Virgil drank his coffee and kept a sleepy eye on the controls. When he finished the mug, he stared at it sadly. He looked toward Gordon and held the mug up. "I don't suppose I could talk you into making me another cup?" he pleaded.

Gordon crossed his arms over his chest. "Absolutely not!" he snapped. "You want coffee, you can get it yourself!"

Virgil gaped at him. "What – and leave you here alone? You'd probably crash Two if you so much as looked cross-eyed at the controls!"

"Well, then, I guess you won't get any more coffee," Gordon told him. "And I won't get any more gray hairs!"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"How did I not hear about this?" Scott demanded.

Virgil's eyes were wide. "Forget _you_ – how did _I_ not hear about this?" He suddenly looked suspicious. "You made that story up, didn't you, Gordon?" he demanded. "There's _no_ way I fell asleep at the controls!"

"Check the flight data," Gordon told him calmly. "And anyway, you insulted my coffee, so you didn't deserve any more."

"I did? I don't remember that."

"You said that my coffee could kill a dead horse," Gordon told him.

Virgil blinked. "But that makes no sense."

"I thought so too. But I was still offended," Gordon sniffed.

"Well, I apologize for insulting your coffee," Virgil said dryly. "Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?"

"Oh, I suppose so," Gordon sighed, his reluctant tone a contrast to his easy grin.

Scott stage-whispered to Alan, "Virgil was right, you know – Gordon does make a really terrible cup of coffee." He yelped as a water balloon suddenly exploded in his face. "Gordon!"

The scene quickly devolved into a water battle as the brothers figured out that Gordon had water balloons and squirt guns stashed all over the place.

The stories flew almost as thick and fast as the projectiles.

"Hey, remember when...?"


	7. Chapter 7

_It's time to finish this story! Final chapter!_

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

Eventually the water fight died down – they had run out of ammo – and the brothers flopped breathlessly back into their loungers. John smirked at them from a nearby video screen, totally dry and unruffled.

Alan piped up. "So I've got a gray hairs story that _totally_ tops all of yours," he said smugly.

"Oh yeah?" Gordon replied. "Even better than Virgil falling asleep at the controls of Two?"

"Hey!" Vigil protested. "I'm still not entirely willing to believe that that actually happened!"

"I told you – check the flight data," Gordon said, smirking. "So, Alan…?"

"Yeah, it's way better than that. Let's just say that if it weren't for my natural youth and vitality, I'd be a few shades lighter than blonde right now. So, anyway, you guys will remember this one – it was that fishing boat off the coast of Alaska."

"Oh, I know which one you're talking about," John said. "That was the day my comms went all crazy from that weird glitch in the system. I called the rescue in, but then I couldn't contact you guys again for another couple hours."

"Oh, yeah, I remember that – we didn't know what was wrong, so we were all worried about you," Virgil said.

"When I finally fixed the problem and called home later that day, the island was in chaos – Gordon had the bends, Virgil had a concussion, and Scott had both a concussion _and_ the bends! Dad was too busy to tell me anything else, and somehow I never did get the full story."

Scott groaned. "That could be because we all tried our best to forget that day."

"Well, I'm gonna tell John all about it now," Alan said gleefully. "This is a tale of danger and excitement, of pain and of bravery–"

"Just get it over with," Scott grumbled. "It doesn't need a preface!"

"Fine," Alan sighed. "So, we were on the fishing boat, and Scott and Virg kept making these serious faces at each other because we couldn't get in contact with John…"

 **Chapter Seven**

"Thunderbird Five, come in. John, do you read me?"

Scott grimaced and cast Virgil a concerned glance when there was no response to his call. He'd been trying to reach John for the past hour.

Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan were standing on a fishing boat that had been badly damaged in a storm off the Alaskan coast. The weather had been too severe for local agencies to attempt a rescue, so they had contacted International Rescue. John had passed the call along to Tracy Island, but they hadn't heard from him since, and he wasn't responding to their calls.

When they had arrived at the Danger Zone, they were startled to discover no life signs on the boat. Alarmed, they left their Thunderbirds hovering nearby and dropped down to search the boat in person. To their confusion, they had found the vessel abandoned.

Still unable to reach John, they had contacted their father, who spent quite a while calling different officials until he finally discovered that the crew of the fishing boat had been rescued by another boat that had heard their SOS. Normally when that sort of thing happened, John would have picked up on those radio transmissions and sent International Rescue back home.

So the would-be rescuers made their way back up onto the deck of the heavily-listing boat. A massive fishing net lay half on the deck and half in the ocean, its weight gradually pulling the side of the boat down toward the white-capped waves. As they slipped and slid toward the railing, preparing to maneuver the Thunderbirds closer, Scott picked his way across the edge of the net.

"You might not want to walk there," Gordon told him, sputtering as the wind lashed salt water into his face.

Scott's foot slipped into a gap and he sank in up to his knee. "Yeah, well, you guys were taking up the rest of the deck," he grumbled, awkwardly trying to pull his foot free. He only succeeded in getting his other leg caught in the loops of the net. "A little help here?"

Virgil rolled his eyes and walked back toward Scott.

Alan reached the railing already, grabbing hold of it to keep himself from sliding down into the water, as the deck was tilted at nearly a forty-five degree angle. As he turned back to watch his brothers, movement caught his eye, and his heart suddenly leapt into his throat. "Guys, the net!" he cried.

He was too late. The net, which had been gradually slithering into the ocean, chose that moment to pick up speed. Scott, the loops tightening around his ankles, was slammed to the deck and dragged out of sight under the surface of the ocean, followed by the shouts of his brothers.

Gordon started forward to help, but then dove for the railing instead. "Hang on to the rail!" he yelled.

Alan understood the reason for Gordon's shout a moment later. The boat, suddenly freed from the weight of the huge net, rocked violently in the opposite direction, nearly wrenching Alan and Gordon from their position at the railing.

Virgil hadn't had time to grab hold of anything, and he was sent tumbling down the deck. He crashed against the pilot's house and lay still.

The boat bobbed back and forth a few times, finally settling into a more-or-less upright position. As soon as its movement slowed enough for him to let go of the railing, Gordon was on his feet.

"Check on Virgil," he snapped, then leapt up onto the rail of the rocking boat and dove cleanly into the waves, disappearing from sight.

More than a little shaken by the sudden turn of events which left him practically the last man standing, Alan scrambled across the deck to Virgil's side, wincing at the most obvious injury – a nasty gash at his hairline. A quick check revealed that his older brother had a strong pulse and good breathing, though, and no immediate signs of other injuries.

He glanced at his watch, and a shiver of unease rippled through him – it had already been nearly three minutes since Gordon had dived after Scott. He nervously rose to his feet and stood between Virgil's still form and the gap in the railing where the net had gone over the side of the boat, not sure what to do with himself. Trained professional or not, there were still moments in his life like this – moments when he was just a scared little brother wishing an older brother was around to take charge.

A moment later, he sighed in relief as Gordon called his name.

"Alan!"

He hurried to the side of the boat and looked down.

Gordon was treading water, his arms wrapped around Scott, with their older brother's head tipped back on his shoulder. Scott was sheet white and completely limp.

Gordon was gasping for air. Between coughs, he sputtered, "Drop me a line – I don't think Scott's breathing!"

Ice shot through Alan's heart, numbers clouding his vision even as he spun around in search of a rope – Scott had been underwater for nearly three minutes. Add another minute or two until they got him on the deck and resuscitated…not good!

"Alan!" Gordon's hoarse voice called again.

"Here, Gordon!" Alan cried, spotting some sort of an arm with a pulley system that could swing over the side of the boat at the stern. He frantically untied the end of the rope and dropped it overboard. He could see it go taut a moment later as Gordon quickly tied an improvised harness around Scott. He knew it wouldn't be pretty – when someone wasn't breathing, you didn't get points for finesse. Speed was the only important thing. That was why he wasn't surprised when it was only moments later that Gordon called, "Heave!"

He put his back into it, and with the help of the pulleys, it wasn't much effort to raise Scott's limp, dripping form to his level. Gordon had scrambled up a ladder in the meantime, and he pushed the swinging arm around so that Alan could lower Scott onto the deck.

Gordon helped pull the rope off Scott, but then he took a couple steps back and dropped to his knees, shivering violently and still gasping for breath, clearly exhausted.

Alan started artificial respiration, and almost immediately had to roll Scott into the recovery position as his oldest brother responded to the treatment by spewing ocean water all over the deck.

"I take back everything I ever said about hating it when people puke," Alan said, thumping Scott on the back and listening in delight to his brother's ragged breaths.

Gordon grinned, his teeth chattering. "I agree." He nodded toward Virgil. "How's Virg?"

Virgil chose that moment to start to wake up, slowly lifting his head with a groan.

Alan sighed. "He has a concussion. Go make him hold still, would you?"

Gordon crawled the few feet to Virgil's side. "Wakey, wakey!" he chattered. "Have a nice nap?"

Virgil just groaned again.

Alan rolled his eyes and gave Scott a quick exam, discovering a huge lump on the back of his head – he must have hit his head when the net pulled his feet out from under him. His breathing was still a bit wheezy, but it was steady, and he was already beginning to stir. "Hey, I think he's more or less okay," he called over to Gordon.

"For now, anyway," Gordon said. "Unfortunately, we went deep enough and ascended rapidly enough that we might get decompression sickness."

Alan frowned. "What's the procedure for that?"

"We should go on oxygen until we can get back to the recompression chamber on the island."

"Speaking of getting back to the island," Alan said slowly. "Uh, any ideas?"

Scott pushed himself up onto one elbow, wheezing, his complexion quite green, and gasped out, "I'm flying One!"

Virgil blinked his eyes open, then quickly shut them again. "And I'm flying Two," he mumbled.

Alan and Gordon facepalmed simultaneously.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So how _did_ you end up getting them home?" John asked, a smile playing around the corner of his mouth as he took in Scott and Virgil's disgruntled expressions.

Alan shrugged. "I went up in Two and sent down the rescue platform. We strapped them to beds in the sickbay and I flew them home. The adventure didn't end there, though – Gordon was flying One, but by the end of the flight, he was starting to feel the effects of the decompression sickness, so I had to land One by remote control – while still flying Two!" He shook his head. "What a day!"

"So you were scared by all four older brothers at once," John mused. "You ever been scared by all four _younger_ brothers at one time, Scotty?"

"More times than I could count," Scott said dryly. "It's a wonder I'm not as gray as Dad."

Alan smirked. "Yeah, the gray hairs will show up on you and Virg first, since you've got the darkest hair." He turned and studied Virgil speculatively. "You started all this," he said. "Any particular reason?"  
Virgil blinked. "No…"

"Yeah, I've wondered about that myself," Scott said. "You seem to have an odd fascination with the subject of gray hairs these days. Something you want to tell us, Virg?"

Virgil scowled, self-consciously smoothing down his thick, dark hair. "Nope. Definitely not." He climbed to his feet. "Hey, I just remembered that I ought to be doing some maintenance on Two. Catch you guys later!"

His brothers waited until he was out of earshot… and then the planning began.

 **Finale**

Virgil blinked sleepily at his clock, the numbers taking a little while to register. Nine in the morning. A little early for him, but he was more or less awake, so he figured he might as well get up and go find some coffee.

As he got dressed, he thought back to the strange dream he'd had – it had seemed so real. He'd dreamed that he had awakened in the middle of the night to the sensation of someone running their fingers through his hair, like Scott did when Virgil was sick or hurt or having trouble sleeping.

But he was perfectly healthy, and he'd fallen asleep without any problem, so that didn't make sense – it must've just been a dream.

He stumbled down the hall toward the kitchen, his focus shifting to a singular goal: find coffee and drink it.

Half an hour later, he was feeling much more human. He was just leaving the kitchen, running through his mental to-do list, when Grandma stepped into the room. Her eyebrows rose as she looked at him.

"Oh, my," she said. The corner of her mouth twitched.

Virgil blinked. "What? Did I spill my coffee or something?" He glanced down the front of his shirt, but it was clean. "Grandma?"

"Oh, don't worry about it," Grandma said, although her eyes were twinkling with suppressed amusement. "Why don't you go say hello to your father? I think he'd enjoy seeing you this morning."

"Uh, okay," Virgil said hesitantly. Still puzzling over the odd conversation, Virgil made his way to his father's study. "Morning, Dad," he said as he entered the room.

Jeff glanced up, and his eyebrows rose too. "Uh, good morning, Son," he said briskly, clearing his throat. He quickly looked back down at his desk, obviously trying to hide a smile. "Sleep well?"

Virgil shrugged. "Yeah, fine." He studied his father quizzically, then decided he'd rather ask a brother what was going on. "Seen Scott around?"

Before his father could answer, they heard voices in the hall, and then his three earth-bound brothers hurried into the room. John's face popped up on a screen on the wall at nearly the same moment. All their faces were lit up with expectant glee, which burst into full-blown mirth the instant they saw Virgil. Gordon and Alan exploded into laughter, while Scott and John merely grinned, but all their hilarity was definitely fixed on Virgil.

" _What_?" Virgil demanded, looking around at all their faces. "What is so funny about the way I look today?"

Jeff cleared his throat, and Virgil turned to see him holding up a hand mirror.

"Well, Son," Jeff said, "your brothers claim that you brought this on yourself. I choose a neutral position on the matter, but you may want to think twice before you mention gray hairs in the future." His gaze was warm but amused.

Virgil snatched the mirror and looked into it, and found his own eyebrows climbing nearly to his hairline – his gray hairline. Yes, someone had thoroughly worked white powder all through his hair, aging him by a few decades.

He ground his teeth together, seriously annoyed for one moment – and then sighed, letting his anger go. "Nice one, guys," he said. "I guess I did have that coming."

Gordon whipped out a camera, and as Virgil obligingly posed for a few photos with his brothers – before they noticed that he was shaking the powder off onto them – Virgil suddenly had to hide a smirk as he had an idea.

As soon as he could escape, he retreated to his room. A shower was the first order of business, to restore his hair to its natural dark brown. Then he set up four large canvases and got out his paints.

A couple weeks later, Alan's outraged shout alerted the rest of the family to an interesting situation in the lounge. They rushed into the room, where Virgil stood proudly surveying the portraits on the wall, arms crossed smugly over his chest. Scott, John, Gordon and Alan all had brand new portraits – and they were all sporting dapper gray hair.


End file.
